The tumult, damn!

Can you discern it, breathe it , the chicanery ?

The rasps within, alas!

Can you see these cuts ? The ones arcane under my skin.

Its so loud , the silence , where to scrutinise the soul?

Unsheathed fatal knife of god has bequeathed the soul with no hope, slithering with no clasp.

This solicitousness marring in silhouettes and what left is a bared body in a questioning milieu.

“Calluses begat by gripping left no hope to win the backing”



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